Fair Play
by Just Inevitable
Summary: Where Mr. Tufton and Mr. Carson have a misunderstanding.


"What do you mean Mrs. Patmore's in her bedroom? It's nearly time for luncheon!" He follows her into the kitchen, wants to get the bottom of this immediately. "Is she ill?"

She's shaking her head at him, rolling her eyes. "No, she isn't. She's –"

"And why can't Daisy or Ivy do it?"

"Because, Mr. Carson!" She's huffing now, as she slips an apron over her head; ties it behind her waist, turns to him. "Because Mrs. Patmore doesn't want them anywhere the near the man, and to be honest, neither do I. And my goodness, it'll only take five minutes. It won't kill me."

He's still not convinced. He's still standing there, holding the half polished candelabrum in one hand, a cloth in the other, waiting for a straight answer. "But why, particularly? What happened at the fair?"

Oh damn.

He winces. Knows it was the exact wrong thing to say. She's raising an eyebrow at him now, he's biting his tongue. Waits for it, knows exactly what's coming. "Well maybe if you'd come with us, you would know."

There it was.

Honestly, what was wrong with the damned woman? It had been a month since the blasted fair; there'd been a child born, a death in the family since, and Lord knows what had happened that day in Thirsk, and still, she'd refused to let it go.

"Mrs. Hughes, really – I –" She waves him off, flutters her order list at him, gestures that he should go back to his polishing. "Do you want me to stay here while –"

She turns away from him. "Ah, Mr. Tufton! There you are."

Carson heaves a sigh and turns to leave, brushes past the round, squat of a man carrying a basket full of goods. So this was Mr. Tufton. He's heard the name mentioned more than a few times the past few weeks, knows the story was leaning towards the scandalous side, but still hasn't really made heads or tails of it. Looking at him now, with his cocksure stride and large grin, he's not sure how comfortable he is with this arrangement. No, not sure at all. He'll leave the door open then, he resolves. Just until he's done polishing. Just so he can keep an eye out from across the corridor, to make sure she's safe – that's all.

"Mrs. Hughes, pleasure as always." He watches then, from the pantry, as Tufton tip his hat, and sets the basket of shopping down on the counter. Watches how she immediately turns her back towards him, begins pulling out foodstuffs, opening packets, checking them against her order list.

Tufton disappears from view for a moment, only to return with a piece of treacle tart in hand. "Where's Mrs. Patmore, this morning?" he asks now, mouth full.

"She's just in the village, running a few errands." Carson narrows his eyes at the back of her head.

"Well," Tufton sniffs. "I'll not lie, Mrs. Hughes, I can't say I'm sorry. Here's me thinkin' I were in the company of two lovely, gentle sort of women, and then –"

"I daresay you'll bounce back soon enough, Mr. Tufton."

Carson frowns at this, puts the candelabrum down and scoots closer to the door. Almost wishes he'd gone to the fair now, so he'd know what's going on. Almost. Well – it wasn't that he hadn't wanted to; he wouldn't have minded, not at all. She'd thought he was being dull, grouchy as usual, that he didn't know how to have fun. But he really was trying to be nice about it all, had secretly thought they deserved some amusement, that he'd only weigh them down. And truthfully, a small part of him had thought, had stupidly hoped, that she would have backed out at the last second herself, would have stayed back with him, joined him on a walk of the grounds maybe. But _no_, she'd gone with them anyway, had spent her time, her attention, on the blasted grocer man, instead of him.

He sneers now, as he listens, can hear some mumbling, something about the difference between self-raising flour and plain. Can see Tufton fully now, as he stands across the counter from Mrs. Hughes, takes a packet from her fingers, points at the label, laughs. Carson watches the man grin stupidly – thinks wickedly that maybe he could widen the gap between his teeth. Maybe, if he wanted to.

"But you seem to be a gentle person, Mrs. Hughes," Tufton says then, after a moment of silence.

Carson's lips form a straight line. "Don't be so sure," she says. "Looks can be deceiving, you know."

"Well, I hope you don't mind my saying so, but I think your _looks_ are quite agreeable. Quite agreeable, indeed."

Right, that's it.

He doesn't wait to hear her response, doesn't want to know if she is enjoying this – this oaf's attentions. Doesn't want to hear another man pay her cheap compliments – _agreeable._ Hah! As if she could be described as anything less than beautiful. He doesn't want to hear any of it. Simply throws the cloth down onto the table and crosses to the kitchen in two large strides, his jaw set tightly, his back straight as a rod. Doesn't think about it, just goes to stand directly behind her and places his hands on her shoulders – protectively, possessively. He watches with satisfaction as Tufton's grin falls, ignores the look Mrs. Hughes throws his way, simply draws her to his chest and stands there, towering over them both.

"Are we quite finished here, Mr. Tufton?"

Tufton clears his throat, collects the empty basket. "Yes, sir. I – I believe so."

He makes no attempt to leave however; he's still standing there, hemming and hawing, and Carson's patience is running thin. "Was there something else?"

Mrs. Hughes raises a hand to touch his, where it rests on her shoulder, and squeezes his fingers. Gives him a tiny, almost imperceptible little frown, a little furrow of her eyebrows that tells him she's not pleased, not pleased at all, and that he better hold his tongue this instant if he knows what's good for him.

He straightens to his full height, merely tightens his hold on her before glancing back up at Mr. Tufton. "If there's nothing else, sir, I suggest you stop making eyes at Mrs. Hughes and go about your day."

From the corner of his eye, he can see her gaping at him, but he stands resolute – means to cow the man out of Downton with his glare, if he can manage it. And it's working, because the initial protests die on Tufton's lips, his confidence from earlier is thinning quickly, and he's looking back and forth between them now, looking at Mrs. Hughes for help, for something.

And then suddenly, his eyes are widening, lighting up in understanding. "Oh! Only – I thought – That is, I didn't know you were married, Mrs. Hughes." He looks at Carson sheepishly now, begins moving towards the door. "Beg your pardon, sir. I'd never go after another man's wife. "

Carson lifts his chin. "I should certainly hope not. And for that matter, I suggest you do not _'go after'_ any other woman of this household, if you mean to remain Downton's supplier."

Tufton nods furiously now, almost bowing, scraping. "Yes, sir, of course. Good morning to you, sir."

He leaves the room – flees, really – probably afraid for his job. Carson nods to himself, wants to take pride in his accomplishment, his dominion, but his words are settling in now, his claiming to be her husband, and the implications are flooding down on him, and he can distinctly feel the softness of her body under the cloth of her dress and –

Oh God, what has he done?

Quickly, he removes his hands from her shoulders, takes a step back – another, for good measure. Looks at his shoes, any which way at all, can feel the burning in his neck, the tips of his ears. He'd just broken all the rules, laid a claim on her he had no right to – after all, she has every right to be courted by a man if she wanted to. And what if – what if she _had_ wanted to? What if he'd been so caught up in his own – that is, what if he had overlooked her sentiments on the matter? What if she hates him now? What if –

"Mrs. Hughes, I'm sorry – it's just that – Only, I couldn't have that man –"

He stops.

He cannot finish that sentence, can't bring himself to, can't do anything now except inhale a deep, shaky breath as he sees her lifting her hand, feels it come to rest against his cheek, the side of his face. And he's surprised – dumbfounded, really – as he lifts his eyes to meet hers, to find that there is no anger there, no hatred. Only a flicker of warmth, of tenderness, even. And he can't speak now, can't breathe, with her hesitant fingers tracing his jawline, his cheekbone. Can feel his defences crumbling, his eyes fluttering to a close and –

And then she's gone.

She's gone and she's left him standing there, staring at her back, left him to carve the moment into his memory. She's gone and she's left him standing there, and all he knows is, he could not forget it if he tries.


End file.
